IngliseraKuno

Of Smokes, Sand in Pillows and Mangoes Written for a book in commemoration of the Career Executive Service Board's 40th Anniversary Published November 2013      In Barangay San Gabriel in Laurel, Batangas, I spent four days and three nights in the home of Pacing, a widow with five grown children.  Pacing or “Nanay” was a dark, frail woman with short, dry hair who looked older than her age.  She smoked cigarettes she hand-rolled herself, from plants she had raised, and she was amused to find out that I was a smoker myself, with branded cigarettes at that.  We both loved coffee – while I had my 3-in-1 mix, she heated water for her “kapeng barako” in a beat-up kettle over firewood.  She asked me if I wanted sugar for my coffee; I politely replied, “Hindi na po ‘Nay, may asukal na po ‘yan.”   Dinner for all of us was one can of sardines, because as soon as I arrived at their home that night, I ate the sliced mangoes on top of their table. ...

The thing about the social media is one can exercise freedom of speech at the extreme. Like for instance, in facebook, you can post anything you want, even cuss words until Mark Z's team sees it as 'in violation' of their terms and brings it down, too late. The time within which it is posted, and until they take it down, screenshots have been taken of the post. Digital footprints can never be erased, not as long as technology forges on at the speed it is going.  I learned my lessons about that the hard way. There was a time when I had to post stuff, which hindsight, I would squirm at. Especially so with this 'see your memories' feature of facebook. I would tell myself, 'what were you thinking, idiot?!'. It took many important people in my life to make me realize that I was behaving exactly like an idiot with my posts. So I try my best everyday to engage in healthy discussions about the topic which are the fad for the times. Or I write about how I feel abou...

The problem with me is that when I call in sick and I am supposed to rest, my brain does not recognize the four-letter-word: rest. My body does, that is certain. But my associating neurons work double-time. I have to shove those little earphones both my lobes to get an hour or two of sleep. A couple of years back, my daughter suggested I create a blog where I could write down the thoughts rearing to be out there. It was her opinion (and even her brother's) that I am living an 'unhealthy' life on facebook, what with all the rants I post. I told them then to leave me be because writing to me is my 'therapy'. So she told me, 'Mom, write blogs. That way, you have your therapy, and because you know you are writing something that will be read by other people, you will write properly (meaning there will be no curses). So I created a page via this free app and have been writing 'properly' ever since. Well, not perfect 'properly' but I try.  After two...

I remember in one interview I had for a job application, I was asked the corny question, 'What is your measure of success?'. When I was thrown that question, I admittedly squirmed a bit inside. It was so Ms. Universe-y, I wanted to reply: 'ahhhmmm, world peace?'. But my answer came to mind so quick, I replayed it in my mind several times and wondered if it was not some other person's good  spirit which came over me. I said: 'one life, changed'.  The other day, our office handed out land titles to farmers after twenty-five years of them waiting. Why this happened was explained to me, but having recently decided that I am never going to dwell on the 'why's' any longer if these are unproductive, I just resolved to get the rest of the job done by working on the rest who have been waiting for longer. I chatted with four farmers before the ceremonial turnover of the land titles, and looked at their faces: tired and worn, eyes still suspicious if indeed...

Dear Mary Ann, When you asked me, 'Paano mo nakayanan? Gaano katagal?', referring to my father's death which was so long ago,  I told you, 'Yung grief, forever. Hindi mawawala. Pero you will move on, from this tragic day, to your life as before, without forgetting your sister.' A few years back, I volunteered to learn about psycho-social first-aid (PSI) after the worst typhoon in history named 'Yolanda' hit the country. One of my mentors thought PSI is almost always given the least priority in post-disaster scenarios but most important past the relief and recovery, when people start to rebuild their lives. One time during a presentation, I was asked by a participant if I ever experienced a disaster. I said no, but I know the pain of loss, to the last strand of raw ache. I know that I felt like dying every minute I became fully aware that I will not see my Papa ever again, a few days after his death. I know that looking out the window of our car, I envied tho...

Watched 'How To Get Away With Murder', the first two seasons last year upon the suggestion of Ana. She found it interesting (like 'Suits' but that's another story) so I binge-watched? Is that how they call it? So I ran through the first two seasons in a couple of weeks. One episode would leave me hanging, so I was almost always watching two to three episodes continuously until my eyes would give up. The series is interesting, in a sense that I was disturbed when I finished the two seasons. The storyline started out as inspiring: a woman-lawyer, Annalise, teaches a law class the creative way to use the law to defend clients, even the guilty ones, of course. She set her eyes on a  bunch of kids eager to be like her, and had them work for her in her own  actual cases. One thing led to another and at the end of the second season, this bunch of kids have become murderers.  And they all got away with the murders. (Or did they?, eyes squinted, like Aidan says it.) I did no...